


If This is a Dream, Don't Wake Me Up

by Maya_Koppori



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Underage Drinking, slight cursing for the wee little ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6392710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maya_Koppori/pseuds/Maya_Koppori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between the game against Yale and playoffs, Bitty must figure out that hockey star Jack Zimmermann does not, in fact, hate his guts. </p><p>Pfft, yeah right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If This is a Dream, Don't Wake Me Up

Bitty’s first collegiate escapade with alcohol isn't actually at the Haus or his dorm, or even somewhere he's remotely familiar with. But when the women's volleyball team invites the entire campus to a blowout bash after the first major exam of the year, it's only polite to at least show up with a couple of freshly made pies. It's just how his mama raised him.

So when he gets to the campus house on frat row and finds Ransom, Holster, and Shitty already there and already more than a little buzzed and already pulling freshman into games of flip cup, he decides that a cup or two of the dark and bubbly won't hurt. He's with new people in a new place, but at least he's in good company.

“M’telling ya Bits,” Shitty slurs out over the rim of his cup. “This? This is nothing. Once Lardo gets back and we show you a real kegster, you'll never go back.”

And Bitty nods, drowsy even in the middle of the pounding music and flashing lights. It's warm with the heat of so many bodies packed into one place, and the sofa he and Shitty are lounging on is so much cleaner and softer than the diseased green couch at the Haus. Combined with the lazy, calming buzz of alcohol in his system, the party haze lulls Bitty’s eyes closed.

Heat envelops him as he dozes. The party noise fades to a deep, base-pumping hum at the base of his skull before suddenly cutting off and he's cold and moving for some reason, oh no that's not good he's gonna get _sick-_

Bitty’s eyes fly open and he flails like a fish out of water, gulping down the cool night air in an effort not to deposit his last three red solo cups worth of cheap beer onto himself. Large hands tighten on his arm and under his knees, and the movement stops altogether.

“For the love of God, Bittle, if you hurl on me I'm leaving you here on the curb.”

Bitty gasps and goes still. The voice is familiar, but not at all one he was expecting. “What? Jack, what's going on?” He looks up at his captain in a bleary stupor, squinting in the dark.

Jack doesn't answer his question, only shakes his head with a sigh. “Can I keep walking, or are you going to get sick? I've had enough of that with Shitty for the past couple of years.”

Groaning, Bitty forces himself to take stock of how he's feeling. Now that Jack isn't moving, the nausea has died down enough that just opening his eyes doesn't make him feel dizzy. “I'm good,” he says slowly. “Goodness gracious, but isn't that embarrassing? My first party and I faint dead away like a true blue southern belle. You shouldn't have to white knight me like this. You can put me down now, I can walk back to my dorm.”

Until the last sentence, Jack only waits and listens, but at Bitty’s experimental wriggle he only tightens his grip once again and starts walking, looking straight ahead. “No way. Everyone on the team’s staying the night at the Haus, no exceptions. We’re all going to have a nice long chat in the morning about when it is and isn't appropriate to drown yourself in liquor.”

His stomach lurches, and Bitty takes deep, even breaths through his nose. He's just drunk enough that he's not immediately mortified when he angles his face into Jack’s shirt and whines, “I don't want to sleep on the couch.”

A strange sound breaks the silence around them, and Bitty blinks up at Jack in time to see the remnants of a quick laugh fade from the corners of his mouth. It's just a little bit breathtaking, seeing first hand that Jack Zimmerman can smile. His normally droopy eyes are blown wide in the dark too, and intense in an effortless sort of way that Bitty can't help but admire.

But he’ll blame that on the alcohol too.

“You don't have to sleep on the couch,” Jack promises, the hint of a potential chirp heavy in his tone. “I'm nearly positive that Shitty already claimed it so he wouldn't have to tackle the stairs.”

Relief sweeps through Bitty, intensified by the party and the drink and Jack’s warm arms. “Thanks, Jack,” he whispers. “Sorry. If I make pancakes in the morning will that be okay?”

“You really think a Canadian would turn that down?”

“No, but you hate me so I can never really tell.” The words come out before his brain can catch up, and they just keep coming. “Plus you're already mad about the party, and it's your Haus.” He sees Jack’s mouth open and so he burrows his face back into his chest and stays there so he can't see. “I just wanted to make sure,” he mumbles.

Instead of pushing the subject, Jack shuts his mouth and keeps walking. He could be less gentle, and he's obviously keeping his stride measured and even for Bitty’s benefit. Bitty makes a mental note to thank him for all of that once he's sober, but for now he's still drunk and the rocking motion is soothing now rather than jarring, and he falls asleep again with a hand all tangled up in Jack’s shirt.

* * *

When Bitty wakes up the next morning, it's to a headache that could have been a lot worse. Even so, he spends a long time lying still and breathing with his eyes closed. The sun slants across his eyelids, insistently growing brighter until Bitty groans and rolls over to hide his face in the sheets. He’s still feeling the soothing glow of nice dreams, and he loathes the idea of having to get up. He nuzzles into his pillow and breathes in deeply.  

 _That's not mama’s detergent_ is the only thought that registers before he sits bolt upright with a gasp. And promptly screws his face into a grimace. _Ah. There's the headache._

He recalls, vaguely, being carried into a sleeping Haus full of snores and huddled bodies. He recalls being sat down on the kitchen counter and force fed two glasses of water. He recalls being tucked into bed by hands that were gentler than they should have been, bigger and softer and warmer and _more_ than they should have been. The memory blends in nicely with his dreams of blue eyes and a rare smile and the smell of these sheets.

Bitty forces his eyes open and blinks through watery lashes to take in the room around him. The hangover he's sporting makes most of it a big, sunshiney blur, but the extensive hockey memorabilia and bright red BE BETTER poster mean that this can only be one person’s room.

 _Lord_ . Bitty claps a hand over his mouth in an effort not to make any noise. He’s in Jack Zimmermann’s room. He’s in Jack Zimmermann’s _bed_.

He has to get out. He has to get out of here and get back to his dorm and scrub the scent of Jack’s cologne from his skin before he memorizes it, ready to call it up any time he wants to-

“Pancakes,” he mutters. “Time for lots and lots of pancakes.”

Sliding out of bed isn't the worst part- he finds his shoes by the end of the bed, socks tucked neatly inside- and neither is sneaking silently down the stairs, or stepping over the comatose forms of his teammates in the living room.

No, Bitty decides that the worst thing is finding his kitchen already occupied. He allows himself thirty seconds, nothing more. Thirty seconds to stare unabashedly as Jack Laurent Zimmermann sips coffee over a morning edition of the school’s newspaper. Thirty seconds to pretend that this could be his life, that Jack isn't waiting just for pancakes, but for him. Someone he doesn't hate.

“I don't know what makes you think I hate you.”

For a moment Bitty fears he's spoken aloud, but Jack doesn't look up from his coffee as he continues, “Of all the things I thought you'd say if you ever got drunk, telling someone who was carrying your sorry ass home from a house party that they hate you was pretty low on the list.”

Bitty’s cheeks burn. “W-Well you see here Jack, I wasn't-”

“You weren't sober, but you were lucid. Trust me, I can spot the difference between sleepy drunk and falling down drunk.” Jack folds his issue of the Swallow and smoothes it down on the kitchen table before meeting Bitty’s eyes. They're filled with a guarded curiosity that makes Bitty’s stomach do flip flops. “What did I do to make you think I hated you?”

 _This boy,_ Bitty thinks. “What did you do?” he repeats. “Well nothing, other than chew me out for things I can't help and glare at me all the damn time!” Bitty keeps his voice low out of consideration for his still-sleeping teammates, but it isn't easy. Incredulity and shock drive his voice higher, and he’s justifiably testy from his hangover. “You’re not exactly subtle when you don't like someone, Jack. You wouldn't tell a friend that their first goal of the season was a _lucky shot_.”

Jack breathes in sharply, and for a scary moment Bitty thinks he's going to throw down the metaphorical glove. But he just shakes his head at Bitty like he's disappointed in his line of thinking. “Bittle, would someone who hated you carry you across campus?”

“If they were my captain and needed me for practice the next afternoon? Sure.”

“Would someone who hated you take the trouble of making sure you didn't get a killer hangover?”

“Same song, second verse,” Bitty points out. He crosses his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes. He isn't all that sure why he's so adamant about this, but he knows that Jack dislikes him. If Jack doesn't like Bitty, then it makes it easier for Bitty to dislike Jack.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Would someone who hated you let you take his bed for the night?” He takes a long sip of his coffee, looking smug.

Bitty’s prepared retort dies on his lips. _No_ , he realizes. That wouldn't make a lick of sense. It’s one thing to get him out of harm’s way; Jack’s the captain, and as he's said many times over the course of their time together, the team is his priority. But this is going above and beyond the call of duty.

So if Jack doesn't hate him… Bitty shakes his head roughly, instantly regretting it when his headache surges to his temples. “Ow,” he whimpers.

Setting his mug aside, Jack looks at Bitty with what looks like bona fide friendly concern. “Are you sure you’re okay to cook? No one’s going to be awake for awhile.”

Bitty mock glares at Jack and swiftly crosses to the cabinets to pull down what he needs. “You insult me, Jack Zimmermann. A curse upon your house. Of _course_ I can cook.”

Jack smiles. “Of course.”

“And don't you forget it.” Bitty puts his agitated energy into whisking batter. While he's sure Jack's not looking, he pinches himself on the inside of his thigh, hard. _Good Lord, he's not dreaming._  

And if he slides Jack some of the good maple syrup he's had cloistered away for months… Well, one good turn deserves another.

It’s just how his mama raised him.

**Author's Note:**

> I really haven't written anything for this fandom before, and this is more of a characterization test than anything else. The question of how Jack and Bitty got closer in between the episodes has gotten me hooked; there's chemistry on the ice, for sure, but even Jack Zimmermann has to talk about feelings sometimes, right? Idk y'all, this isn't really my best work but I'll leave it here for now *ta-daa*


End file.
